


Fall Seven Times

by sassyjumper



Series: Tiny House [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Unresolved Sexual Tension, tiny houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Wilson join a food co-op and ponder their futures.  Set post-finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall Seven Times

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Japanese proverb: Fall down seven times, get up eight times.

 

 

“Let me get this straight,” House said as he leaned back in the lounge chair that consumed most of their living room. “You expect me to work at a business known as a _cooperative?_ Do you see your mistake?”

Wilson crossed his arms over his new, outdoorsy plaid button-down, which House had mocked for the better part of the previous day. To no avail apparently.

“I’m sorry,” Wilson said calmly. “But the co-op rules say all adult members of the household have to work there four hours a month.”

House had also spent a good day or so railing against the food co-op. It made no sense to join a cult in order to buy cheap food when they could just hit Safeway, like the gods of capitalism intended.

He gestured toward his leg and made what he believed to be puppy eyes. “Surely those bleeding hearts would grant an exception to the disabled.”

Wilson held up a hand. “I asked. Believe me, I’d prefer that you had as little to do with this as possible.” He sighed. “But they said that’s fine. You can…”

He paused and bit his bottom lip.

_Uh-oh._ “What?” House demanded, though he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

“They…” Wilson took a deep breath then unleashed the rest in a rush. “They said you can sit by the door and greet people.”

House just stared, momentarily stunned, while Wilson peered at him almost fearfully.

“Greet people?” he finally said, as appalled as a normal person might be when asking, “Eat people?”

Wilson nodded slowly. “I know. The thought of you greeting innocent shoppers who are just trying to feed their families is…unsettling.”

“Well,” House drawled. “There’s a clear solution. I’m not doing it.”

Wilson frowned. “But I already told them we’re a two-person household. If you don’t do it, I can’t join either.”

“Pretty sure you’ll get over it.”

Wilson tilted his head and broke out his own, admittedly masterful rendition of puppy eyes. It was shameless, and now that he wasn’t facing impending death, annoying.

“That’s my final word,” House warned.

“How about trying just one shift? I’m working this Saturday afternoon. Maybe we can be on the same squad.”

House blinked. “I dunno, Brittney. My tumbling hasn’t been the same since the infarction.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “They call each work shift a squad. I’m not sure why. I think it’s to encourage camaraderie…or something.”

House pushed to his feet and got up in Wilson's face—because there was really no other choice in their tiny house.

“Camaraderie,” he said disdainfully. “Cooperation. Greeting people. None of these concepts have anything to do with me.” He maneuvered around Wilson and headed for the front door.

“There is no way in hell you’re getting me to do it,” he vowed as he limped out.

 

*******

 

It was an hour into House’s first shift at the co-op. He was loath to admit it, but so far it wasn’t all that bad. Everyone who’d come in had said hello to him first, so he’d gotten away with simply nodding. Since that wasn’t so much a greeting as it was a head movement, he could live with it.

_For now._

“Hey,” he heard Wilson say from behind him. He rolled his eyes; it was the third time in the past hour Wilson had come to casually check on him, vacating his own post in the fruit section—an assignment that delighted House to no end.

He scooted around on his stool to face Wilson, who was decked out in a green apron and baseball cap, both emblazoned with the Small Planet Food Co-op logo. House had been given a cap, which he placed atop his cane; again, he’d gotten away with it so far.

“How are you and the other fruits doing?” House inquired.

“You used that line already.”

“I know. I’m hoping you’ll get tired of it and stop coming around.”

Wilson crossed his arms over his stupid apron. “I’m just—I wanna make sure you’re OK.”

House sneered. “You wanna make sure I’m not sabotaging your precious co-op membership.”

“Well, yeah. But…How’s the leg? You can walk around, you know. They won’t tackle you and put you back on the stool.”

“I’m fine,” House grumbled. “And yeah, they’re obviously lax about job duties, since you keep abandoning your fruit post. What are you doing there anyway?”

Wilson shrugged. “Just keeping things in order. I had to stack some plums in a pyramid.” He rubbed the back of his neck and gave an embarrassed chuckle. “It was kind of hard, actually. They kept rolling.”

House nodded. “Round objects seem to do that. You need square fruit.” He paused to smirk. “Square fruit. That’s, like, the perfect description of you.”

Wilson set his jaw. “Have I mentioned the fruit jokes are getting old?”

“Have I mentioned that I’m trying to make you go away?”

Wilson was silent for a moment before sighing and shaking his head. “I’m having a hard time because my hands are bothering me,” he said quietly.

House just stared, caught off guard by the sudden admission.

“Since when? They’re numb, you mean?”

“Just the fingers. It’s not bad.”

“ _Riiight._ Like it wasn’t bad when you were on the chemo?”

Wilson sighed again. “It’s not nearly that bad. You know it might take time for the neuropathy to go away completely. Or maybe it never will.”

House was not entertaining that possibility. Wilson was supposed to be in proper working order now. But before he could inform Wilson of that, a female voice broke in.

“Excuse me.” They both turned toward the door, where a blonde with a yoga mat was gracing them with a smile. “Do you have to be a member to shop here?”

“Oh, uh, yes, you do,” Wilson said, adopting his patented Soft Smile: for Ladies. “Sorry. But if you’re thinking about joining, I can show you where the office is.”

“Run,” House advised her. “Run from this place. Before they enslave you and force you to build plum pyramids.”

Blonde Yoga looked at him in confusion for a beat, but then offered a lilting little laugh. “Um, thanks for the warning. But you two don’t seem to be performing forced labor.”

House hooked a thumb toward Wilson. “You’ve clearly never had to converse with him.”

“Forgive him,” Wilson interjected. “The hot weather is aggravating his Pitta Dosha.”

Yoga Woman smiled again. “You’re familiar with Ayurveda? I’m in the middle of a certification program. I was actually wondering if I could get good prices on herbs here.”

“Oh, well,” Wilson fumbled. “I’m sort of familiar. Some of my patients used to try alternative products, so I’d study up on them, just to have an idea how they work. Make sure there were no drug interactions.”

“You’re a doctor?”

Wilson hesitated, like he didn’t know the answer. Maybe he didn’t, House realized.

“I used to be,” Wilson finally said.

He and Granola Girl proceeded to have an exchange about the fact that there are so many ways to help people _heal_ and become _whole._ Wilson agreed that it didn’t have to be through _Western medicine._

“I’m pretty sure it was Western medicine that kicked your cancer’s ass,” House reminded him.

Ms. Ayurveda put a hand on her chest. “Cancer? But you’re cured?”

Wilson explained that he was in remission, not cured, and the woman started recommending herbs and essential oils that might _promote his wellness_ during remission.

House had to admit, she was actually well-spoken, and witty, and had a great yogic ass. He was also pretty sure he hated her—mostly for the way she made Wilson stammer and giggle. Of course, he probably had nothing to worry about; she’d bolt the second she found out they were two guys living in a tiny house.

“Well,” Wilson eventually said, regret clear in his voice, “I better get back. Do you wanna talk to someone about joining?”

Yoga Woman smiled. “Yeah. I think so.”

Wilson returned the smile and House tried not to gag. “OK, I’ll show you where to go.”

Wilson’s new little friend turned toward House. “Nice meeting you…Um?”

House nodded.

She gave him a quizzical look. “Oh-kay.”

“C’mon,” Wilson urged, putting a hand lightly on her back, then expertly shooting House a covert glare as he steered her away.

House shrugged in mock puzzlement.

He watched the couple as they meandered through the fruit stacks until they disappeared from view. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling so agitated. Wilson was just being Wilson, and wasn’t that all House had wanted for the past eight months? For Wilson to stick around a while longer and keep being him?

_Yep,_ House thought as he nodded at the next customer coming through the door. And yet, sitting there on his stool, he realized he hadn’t felt that alone in a long time.

 

*******

 

“OK, I’m mad at you,” Wilson announced as soon as he’d strapped into the passenger seat of their lame Honda Civic. They’d traded in the bikes back in Houston, when it became clear that wasn’t the ideal ride for a cancer patient with peripheral neuropathy.

Wilson had insisted on the Honda because it was economical and reliable. House had argued that coolness was a far more important criterion for car purchases, but he’d lost.

“Duly noted,” House said as he pulled out of their parking space. There’d been no argument over who was driving, so it was safe to assume Wilson’s hands were bothering him more than he’d admit.

“I’m mad at you,” Wilson clarified, “but I’m gonna talk to you anyway.”

“You say that as if the silent treatment would be a punishment, when in fact—”

“Shut up and listen,” Wilson said impatiently. “Valerie and I talked a little more after she signed up.”

House felt a flare of annoyance. “Yes, I know. I saw you two hens gabbing.”

Wilson ignored the remark. “So she told me about a friend of hers with a very interesting job.” He paused dramatically.

House sighed. “God, just spit it out.”

“She owns a murder mystery company.”

House automatically opened his mouth to make a snide comment, but found that nothing came out. He was truly at a loss. He glanced at Wilson, who was grinning like a doofus.

“What does that even mean?” House asked, though he felt he’d regret it.

“Murder mystery events are very hot right now,” Wilson informed him, like he had any clue about popular culture post-1986. “Her company stages murder mystery parties and dinners and…Well, I didn’t quite understand the whole thing,” he said with a hand flap.

“Anyway,” he continued, “the company is expanding, and she needs a new script writer.”

House stopped at a traffic light and looked at Wilson, who was now openly smiling at him, with a little gleam in his eyes…

_Oh, Christ._

“House,” he said excitedly. “It’s the perfect job for you. You’d be great at coming up with mysteries—and scaring people.”

For a moment, House could barely form words. Then the moment passed. “How about just murder?” he suggested. “Could I just arrange murders? Such as yours?”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Can you keep an open mind for one minute?”

“One minute?” House repeated, gripping the wheel tighter. “I’m living in a fucking tiny house. I just spent four hours as a greeter at a food co-op.”

Wilson held up a hand. “OK. Point granted.”

“Gee, thanks, Point Granter.”

“House, seriously. It could be something you’d enjoy. It would engage your love of puzzles and your misanthropic tendencies.”

House fell silent as he pondered that. That _was_ a good combination of job qualities, he thought as he turned off the main road. But then he remembered the idea was insane.

“No. You may have gotten me to be a grocery store greeter for an afternoon. But you are not pushing me into a party-planning career.”

He pulled up to their tiny house, which in itself was still surreal.

“But you wouldn’t have to help them throw the party,” Wilson protested, making no move to unbuckle his seatbelt. “You’d just write the scripts. No human interaction…though, I mean, you could go to some of the events—”

“What makes you think I can write a script?”

“Well…You’re—you’re a genius.”

House wagged an index finger. “Oh, no. Don’t even try it, you manipulative bitch.”

He yanked the keys from the ignition, grabbed his cane and got out of the car. Unfortunately, he couldn’t limp fast enough to lose Wilson, who was at his heels in no time. “Would you just think about it? House, we have to get creative about your job possibilities.”

House whirled around. “Do _we?_ Do me a favor and let me worry about that. I don’t need you to take care of me.” He wasn’t even sure why he was so angry.

Apparently Wilson wasn’t either, by the look on his face. “I’m just trying to help—”

“And what about you?” House demanded, turning to the familiar tactic of deflection. “When are you gonna start earning an income, Farmer Jim?”

Wilson blinked. “I—I have to figure that out.”

“So why don’t you do that instead of finding busy work for me?” House said. And then, because he couldn’t stop himself, he answered his own question. “You’re just trying to get me out of your fluffy hair.”

Wilson gaped at him. “What are you talking about?”

House shook his head. “Nothing,” he muttered, starting toward the house again.

“Hey,” Wilson called after him. “What do you mean?”

House halted and looked skyward. _Great._ There was no stopping this conversation now.

“I mean,” he said without turning around, “you’re already tired of this little arrangement. Pun intended.”

Wilson walked past him and turned so they were eye-to-eye. “I don’t know where this is coming from, but you need—we both need—to figure out what to do from here.”

House looked down and tapped his cane on the ground.

Wilson sighed. “And yeah, I think we both need to get out into the world. For the past eight months, it’s basically been you and me and no one else. We need to…live.”

House huffed a humorless laugh. “Easy to say when you’re not a dead guy with a fake ID.”

According to his new ID, he was Greg Daniels. He’d insisted on keeping the Gregory, and the Daniels part had been Wilson’s suggestion when he was in the midst of a particularly emo phase of his treatment—in honor of his brother, he’d said.

House hated Greg Daniels. He sounded like a financial advisor, or the go-to leading man for romantic comedies on Lifetime. But he’d catered to Wilson on that one, too—though, OK, he kind of liked the fact that Wilson wanted him to have his brother’s name.

Wilson crossed his arms and gave him the Earnest Eyes. “I realize you’re in a bit of a predicament. That’s why I’m trying to help.”

House returned his gaze to the ground and started poking in the dirt with his cane. “And the more self-sufficient I am,” he said quietly, “the easier it’ll be for you to find the next Mrs. Wilson.”

There was a heavy silence then, and House just kept digging.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Wilson said, his voice cracking in that Wilson way. “Because I dared to talk to Valerie? Do you even—”

He stopped abruptly and took a couple steps away before turning on House again. “Do you know how far that is from my mind? I don’t even have the energy to get out of bed some days. But I do. I go out in that garden and sit on the ground and hope my hands can…”

House waited, but when Wilson didn’t say anything more, he decided to prod. “I thought it wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s not—usually. You haven’t even noticed.”

House gave a little shrug. “You’re good at hiding.”

Wilson smiled wryly. “Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “They only bother me if I try to do too much. Or if I walk a lot, my feet get a little numb.”

House shook his head. “So standing guard over fruit for four hours seemed like a good idea?”

“What do you want me to do?” Wilson asked defensively. “Sit in a tiny house all day because I’m afraid it’ll hurt to move? Is that what you’ve done since the infarction?”

“Nooo,” House conceded lowly. “But I wouldn’t necessarily recommend me as a role model.”

Wilson sighed. “House, I don’t know what I’m doing. I admit it. But I’m trying.”

“Yeah, you are,” House agreed. “You don’t have patients anymore, so you’re trying to take care of gardens, and fruit stacks, and yoga hussies. And me.”

Wilson eyed him for a moment. “I’ve always tried to take care of you.”

House cringed at the sentimentality. “And it’s always pissed me off.”

Wilson smiled a little, but it faded quickly. “I’m worried about you. Actually, when you don’t have something to occupy your mind, I’m worried about everyone in the general vicinity.”

House nodded. “That’s a legit concern. But I think I can do better than writing mystery scripts for unbelievable losers. I mean, dude, seriously?”

Wilson at least had the sense to look embarrassed. “I still think it sounds cool,” he mumbled as they began to stroll to the house.

“Yeah, you’re the arbiter of cool.”

“Well, I haven’t done rad things like go to prison.”

“Gawd,” House said, awkwardly lowering himself to sit on the tiny porch steps. “Can you imagine how you’d fare in prison?”

“I’d rather not. So I think we’re both too tired for cooking. What do you say to some delivery from Earth’s Bounty? It’ll be kinda slow, though. The delivery guy comes on one of those rickshaw thingys.”

“Of course he does,” House sighed. “Whatever. I’m more tired than hungry.”

Wilson peered at him, with that concerned oncologist look House used to see nearly every day of his work life. It was irritating and comforting all at once.

“House, you don’t have to go back there,” Wilson said mildly. “It was stupid to make you.”

“Sure was,” he concurred. “But you don’t have to worry about it right now. We have a whole month till fruit duty calls.”

Wilson looked at him in surprise. “You mean you’d try it again?”

“You really shouldn’t overinterpret my words,” House advised. “I said you don’t need to worry. A month is more than enough time for me to figure out a way around the rules.”

A smile slowly spread across Wilson’s face as he held House’s gaze for a few seconds. Then he nodded and went inside. House opted to stay put and stretch his legs for a while. One good thing about their tiny porch, it had a sweet view of the sunset.

Back when House was officially alive, he hadn’t had much time for sunset watching. He figured there had to be some deep meaning in there—about how sad it was that a person needed to die in order to have time. But he decided not to think about it, and just watch the sky instead.

 

*******

 

“House? You awake?”

Apparently he was, since he was hearing Wilson’s voice. But he was pretty sure he wasn’t happy about it.

“God, what?” House groaned into his pillow.

“Can I talk to you?”

“No,” he said, even as he blinked his eyes open. There was no moonlight, so the room was pitch-black. He heard Wilson shuffle toward him, then felt the bed dip, and he was instantly uneasy. In Houston, when they’d shared a room—OK, a bed—they’d had all their Serious Talks in the dark, where it was somehow less weird.

“Make it quick,” House said hoarsely. “And painless, if that’s possible for you.”

“Um.” There was a long pause, and House thought he actually heard crickets outside. “If…” Wilson began again. “If I weren’t here, what would you be doing?”

“Sleeping.”

“No.” Wilson laughed softly, maybe a little nervously. “I mean, if I were…gone. What do you think you’d be doing right now?”

House felt his chest tighten. “You woke me up to ask about an alternate reality?” he sniped, all grogginess behind him. “You are very, _very_ much here, so what does it matter?”

“I—Well, you know I’ve been thinking about what you could do with your life now. And so, I got to thinking, what _would_ you do? If it were all up to you.”

“It’s never all up to anyone,” House said, a little surprised at how sharply it came out. “There’s a whole world to contend with, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Wilson sighed. “OK, yeah. But…I just wanna know. What were you planning on doing?”

House flung a forearm over his eyes. Why was Wilson doing this now?

“Why do you care?” he moaned. “Whatever my plans were, you ruined them by not dying.”

“House.” Wilson’s voice was thin. “I’m not cured. It could recur, or I could find out I have heart failure from the treatment—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” House sat up and leaned against the headboard. “You are a real barrel of monkeys, you know that? A barrel of morbid, annoying monkeys.”

“What were you gonna do after I died?” Wilson pressed, stronger now. “Would you have turned yourself in? Would you have disappeared to an island—”

“I don’t know!” House almost shouted. “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead, OK?”

Wilson remained silent, and House sighed heavily. “Can I go back to sleep now?” he asked wearily. “I’d like to get back to my dream—I was being stabbed repeatedly.”

“Do you think,” Wilson said, like he hadn’t heard a thing. “Do you think you’d still be here?”

For an instant, House thought about asking Wilson to define “here.” But he knew, of course, and he was suddenly too tired for verbal games.

“I don’t know,” House said, because it was the truth. Part of him was pissed off at the question, but another part felt oddly relieved by saying the answer out loud.

He braced himself for Wilson’s response. But there was none, for an almost uncomfortably long time. And when he finally did speak, Wilson surprised him by simply saying, “OK.”

House felt the bed shift, then listened to Wilson’s bare feet on the wood floor again. He wasn’t stepping normally; his feet had to be numb, House thought.

“House?” Wilson said quietly, from somewhere near the ladder to his own bed.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not looking for the next Mrs. Wilson.”

House nodded, even though Wilson couldn’t see him. “OK.”

As he heard the ladder creak, House sat up taller, slightly alarmed. “Hey, you shouldn’t be climbing that thing. Just—just stay here.”

Wilson seemed to hesitate, but then said, “Oh. No, it’s OK. If I go slow, it’s fine.”

The creaking began again, and House listened to it, and then to the sounds of the floorboards overhead as Wilson settled into bed. And then it was quiet again, except for the crickets. House lay there like that for a long time, just listening.

 

_**—TBC** _

 


End file.
